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noNiry  Of  HIAMT 


ON  LENDING  A  PUNCH-BOWL 


: 


ON  LENDING  A  PUNCH-BOWL 


OLIVER   WENDELL  HOLMES 


New  York 

PRIVATELY  PRINTED 
CHRISTMAS 


WHATEVER  we  may  lack  today  of  the  custom 
ary  gaiety,  we  still  have  left  our  traditions  of 
the  Christmastide.  No  doubt  that,  for  other  gener 
ations  of  the  children  of  men,  the  Punch-bowl  and 
its  ceremonials  will  live  in  folklore.  They  are  pre 
served  here  in  Doctor  Holmes'  ballad;  and  fancy  will 
readily  refill  the  antique  vessel  with  the  old-time  brew 
to  cheer  our  holiday. 

And  how  potent  is  the  delightful  potation  as  ladled 
out  by  the  amiable  Autocrat!  Its  spirit  of  good-fellow 
ship  still  inspires  the  Season's  merry-making.  Not  so 
long  ago  our  boys  Over  There,  as  those  at  Bunker's 
Hill,  were  cheered  and  heartened  by  a  draught  of  it; 
and  if  now  we  must  resign  ourselves  to  do  without 
the  "generous  warmth"  and  "the  banished  joys  that 
danced  around  its  brim,"  we  will  not  forever  forego 
the  pleasures  of  boon  companionship,  although  indeed 
times  change  and  we  with  times — save  in  the  ways 
of  friendship.  C.  M.  F. 

December,  1920. 


ON  LENDING  A  PUNCH-BOWL 

This  ancient  silver  bowl  of  mine,— it 

tells  of  good  old  times, 
Of  joyous  days,  and  jolly  nights -,  and 

merry  Christmas  chimes ; 
They  were  a  free  and  jovial  race,  but 

honest,  brave,  and  true, 
That  dipped  their  ladle  in  the  punch 

when  this  old  bowl  was  new. 


A  Spanish  galleon  brought  the  bar^— 

so  runs  the  ancient  tale; 
9  Twas  hammered  by  an  Antwerp  smith^ 

whose  arm  was  like  a  flail; 
And  now  and  then  between  the  strokes , 

for  fear  his  strength  should fail^ 
He  wiped  his  brow^  and  quaffed  a  cup 

of  good  old  Flemish  ale. 


'  T  was  purchased  by  an  English  squire 

to  please  his  loving  dame, 
Ufho  saw  the  cherubs ',  and  conceived 

a  longing  for  the  same; 
And  oft,  as  on  the  ancient  stock  another 

twig  was  found, 
'  T  was  Jl lied  with  caudle  spiced  and  hot, 

and  handed  smoking  round. 


But,  changing  hands  ^  it  reached  at  length 

a  Puritan  divine^ 
W^ho  used  to  follow  Timothy ',  and take  a 

little  wine^ 
But  hated  punch  and  prelacy;  and  so  it 

was ,  per  haps ) 
He  went  to  Leyden,  where  he  found 

conventicles  and  schnaps. 


And  then,  of  course, you  know  what  9s 

next,— it  left  the  Dutchman  s  shore 
With  those  that  in  the  Mayflower  came,— 

a  hundred  souls  and  more,— 
Along  with  all  the furniture,to  Jill  their 

new  abodes,— 
To  judge  by  what  is  still  on  hand,  at  least 

a  hundred  loads. 


'  Twas  on  a  dreary  winter  s  eve,  the  night 

was  closing  dim, 
When  old  Miles  Standish  took  the  bowl, 

andjilledit  to  the  brim; 
The  little  Captain  stood  and  stirred  the 

posset  with  his  sword, 
And  all  his  sturdy  men-at-arms  were 

ranged  about  the  board. 


He  poured  the  fiery  Hollands  in,— the 

man  that  never  feared,— 
He  took  a  long  and  solemn  draught,  and 

wiped  his  yellow  beard; 
And  one  by  one  the  musketeers— the  men 

that  fought  and  prayed— 
All  drank  as  V  were  their  mother  s  milk, 

and  not  a  man  afraid. 


That  nighty  affrighted  from  his  nest,  the 

screaming  eagle  flew, 
He  heard  the  Pequot*  s  ringing  whoop, 

the  soldier  s  wild  halloo; 
And  there  the  sachem  learned  the  rule 

he  taught  to  kith  and  kiny 
"Run  from  the  white  man  whenyoujind 

he  smells  of  Hollands  gin!" 


A  hundred  years,  and  fifty  more,  had 

spread  their  leaves  and  snows, 
A thousand 'rubs  had  flattened  down  each 

little  cherub' s  nose, 
When  once  again  the  bowl  was  filled,  but 

not  in  mirth  or  joy, 
'  T 'was  mingled  by  a  mother  s  hand  to 

cheer  her  parting  boy. 


Drink)  'John,  she  said,  V  will  do  you 

goocl^— poor  child) you' II never  bear 
This  working  in  the  dismal  trench,  out 

in  the  midnight  air; 
And  if —God  bless  me!— you  were  hurt, 

V  would  keep  away  the  chill; 
So^ohn  did  drink,— and  well  he  wrought 

that  night  at  Bunker  s  Hill! 


I  tell  you,  there  was  generous  warmth  in 

good  old  English  cheer; 
I  tell  you,  V  was  a  pleasant  thought  to 

bring  its  symbol  here. 
'  T  is  but  the  fool  that  loves  excess;— hast 

thou  a  drunken  soul? 
Thy  bane  is  in  thy  shallow  skull,  not  in 

my  silver  bowl! 


I  love  the  memory  of  the  past, —its  pressed 

yet  fragrant  flowers,— 
The  moss  that  clothes  its  broken  walls,— 

the  ivy  on  its  towers;— 
Nay,  this  poor  bauble  it  bequeathed,— 

my  eyes  grow  moist  and  dim, 
To  think  of  all  the  vanished  joys  that 

danced  around  its  brim. 


Of  this  book  three  hundred  copies  were  printed  for 

Thomas  Nast  Fairbanks  by  The  Marchbanks  Press 

in  December y  Nineteen  hundred  and  twenty 


